Evan and Elle

by Rhys Bowen

  “What have you done, Bronwen?” He stepped closer to her.

  She turned to stare at her front door. “I’ve got Madame Yvette in there,” she said in a low voice.

  “Then Terry was right. What were you thinking of, Bronwen? You could be up for harboring a fugitive from justice.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I had no idea! I did what I thought was best. I was only trying to be kind, look you. How was I to know?”

  “Why on earth did she come to your house?” Evan fought to remain calm. He couldn’t dismiss the thought that Bronwen had been sheltering a possible killer and might have been in danger herself.

  “I invited her,” Bronwen said simply. “Remember I told you I felt sorry for her having to stay at the pub and not knowing what was going to happen next? It’s a miserable place, that pub, and she had no clothes, no toiletries . . . I had the spare room, so I invited her to come and stay with me until she was free to leave. She was very grateful, Evan.”

  “Bronwen Price—one of these days . . .” Evan put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ve got enough to worry about without having to worry about you doing stupid things!”

  “Stupid things indeed,” she said, tossing her mane of hair. “You should be thanking me that I’ve kept her on the spot, just where you want her. Now you don’t have to go chasing after her, do you? Although I must say I can’t believe that she’s as wicked as you say. She seems so nice and polite and grateful.”

  “There are plenty of serial killers who seemed nice and normal to those around them,” Evan said. “But you’re right—I do have to be grateful to you. When she hears what we’ve discovered, maybe she’ll finally tell us the truth.”

  Chapter 21

  The woman he had known as Madame Yvette was sitting beside the aga stove in Bronwen’s kitchen, wrapped in one of Bronwen’s fringed shawls, and looking remarkably like a witch, her hook nose more pronounced and her eyes hollower than he remembered.

  She looked up when she saw him and smiled warily. “Ah—it is Monsieur Evans. You went down to Sussex, I ’ear. But you did not see zee remains of my poor restaurant, I sink—zey tell me zere ees now a new building where it used to be and zere ees nossing to show zat I was zere anymore.”

  He looked at her. She was still relaxed, confident that they had found nothing that could incriminate her.

  “We didn’t just go to Sussex,” he said, watching her face. “We went to France as well.”

  There was another flash of wariness, then she shrugged. “A wasted journey, I should sink. Nobody ees alive now in France who remember me.”

  “On the contrary,” Evan said. “It was most informative.”

  The wariness returned to her face.

  “We learned, for example,” Evan went on, “that the body in your restaurant was that of Jean Bouchard—your husband who died five years ago, Madame Yvette. It seems he returned from the grave to die again. And you know the strangest thing? He came into the restaurant and you didn’t recognize him. I don’t think a person changes that much in five years, do they?”

  Madame Yvette drew the shawl around her. “I don’t know what you talk about,” she said. “I had nevair seen zat man before in my life.”

  “What man?” Evan asked.

  “The man who came into zee restaurant while you were ’aving dinner,” she said, then flushed when she realized he had tricked her. “You saw ’im come in. He was a stranger, monsieur. I swear zis on my honor.”

  “Of course you do,” Evan said, “and I know you’re telling the truth—why would you recognize Yvette Bouchard’s husband when you aren’t Yvette Bouchard?”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath and the dark eyes flashed at him defiantly. “Can you prove zis, monsieur?”

  “Of course,” Evan said. “We went to your cooking school. I’ve got your photo with your name written across the back in your own handwriting—the same handwriting in which you signed your police report—and Yvette’s photo, too. So you were classmates, were you? Did you come over to console her when her husband was lost at sea? The next thing we know, her restaurant burns to the ground and poor Madame Yvette is dragged out, badly burned. Was that really an accident? I can’t work out what would make you do it, unless it was spite and jealousy. Were you jealous of your friend, Madame? Did you begrudge her the good life she had in England?”

  A look of scorn crossed her face. “Zee good life you say? Eet was a life of drudgery, monsieur. She struggle to keep zat place going. Wizout me she would have ’ad to close long ago. I kept her going—”

  “And then burned her to the ground? Why?”

  “As you say, why? Why should I want to burn down ’er restaurant? Let me tell you, monsieur. When zat restaurant burned, my own ’opes of freedom were destroyed.”

  “So you’re saying that you didn’t burn down the place? You were certainly quick enough to take advantage of the situation, weren’t you? Madame Yvette was badly burned in the fire. Did you decide to take her place, knowing she’s still lying in some hospital, burned and disfigured?”

  Yvette got to her feet. “You policemen, you sink you are so clevair. You sink you know everysing. But you ’ave zee whole sing wrong,” she said. “It was I who was badly burned. I who was disfigured—I who lay in zee ’ospital suffering for months—” With a dramatic gesture she grasped at her hair and whisked it from her head. The right half of her scalp was bald, covered with angry red and purple scars that ran down the back of her neck.

  “Not very attractive, eh? Why do you sink I always wear zee high necks and long sleeves, monsieur? I wish to hide my burned body from the world.”

  “And yet you tried to seduce me,” Evan said, conscious of Bronwen standing behind him. “Weren’t you going to take your clothes off if I’d taken up your offer?”

  The Frenchwoman laughed. “Zat was just a game—to prove to myself zat I was still a woman and I still ’ad zee—how you say—sex appeal. I didn’t really sink you would take me up on it. But if you ’ad, I would have turned out zee light—and I sink you would have been too busy to notice!”

  Evan cleared his throat. “So you’re trying to tell me that you were the one in the restaurant fire, not Yvette Bouchard? Where the hell was she, then?”

  “She died, monsieur,” the Frenchwoman said simply. “She died in a fire so hot that nozzing remained. And zay didn’t search for zee leetle pieces of bone zat might have been ’ers, because zay thought only one person was in zee building and zay rescue one person—me. You see, nobody but Yvette knew zat I was zere.”

  “Why?” Bronwen asked.

  “Let’s just say I got out of France in a ’urry.”

  “You were running from the law?” Evan asked.

  The Frenchwoman laughed bitterly. “From zee law? From zee law zat would not protect me, monsieur.”

  Bronwen pulled a chair close to the stove and patted the cushion for Evan to sit. “I think we’d better hear the whole story,” she said. “I’m still awfully confused.”

  Evan sat and Bronwen pulled a kitchen stool beside him.

  “Very well, I tell you zee story.” The Frenchwoman toyed with the wig in her hands. “And zen you can see zat I am not a criminal.” She stared at the stove, turning away from them. “You are correct—my name is Janine Laroque. Yvette and I were classmates at zee Cordon Bleu. We become friends immediately. We came from zee same situations. We both had nobody in zee world: she was from an orphanage and zen she had worked as an au pair in England for many years. I was raised by an old aunt who died when I was sixteen. We both wanted to be zee world’s greatest chefs . . .” She smiled at the memory and looked up with the smile still on her face. “I was better zan she was. She was—pas mal. I was good. I could have been a great chef, I sink, but I was stupid. I did what young girls do. I fell in love.” The smile faded.

  “When we finish at zee Cordon Bleu, I get a job in a famous restaurant in Paris. She goes back to work in England. She loved England. She spoke English very well—she
’ad zee gift of languages. I ’ad zee gift of cooking. I tell her she should be zee teacher or zee interpreter, but she want to be zee chef also.

  “Yvette also fall in love wiz a young man she meet on zee Channel boats. She makes a good choice. I do not. I meet my husband when he came into zee restaurant. He was very ’andsome—bronze skin, dark curly hair—like a young god, monsieur. And he was rich. He spend lots of money on me. He sweep me off my feet, as you say. But what do I know of men? When I marry ’eem, I find he is zee bad man—jealous and violent. If I speak wiz a man in the market he goes crazy! I know I must get away, but where? I ’ave nobody.” She turned to look at Bronwen, her eyes imploring her to understand. “Zen my friend Yvette write to me. She has saved up enough money to buy a little restaurant in England. And zen tragedy comes to ’er as well. Her husband falls from his boat and drown. She writes and says she ees all alone and she wish I could be wiz her.

  “Zen a miracle happen. Zee police come and arrest my ’usband. Zat night I take zee boat to England. Yvette welcome me and say I can stay wiz her and we will tell no one zat I am zere. So I stay. I do zee cooking and she serve zee customers.”

  “Did Yvette know that her husband hadn’t really drowned?” Evan asked.

  Janine shook her head. “She nevair tell me. Sometimes I suspect zat Jean ees not really dead, but she does not want to tell me, so I do not ask again. Now I see zat zay plan zis whole sing . . . I get a letter, monsieur. It tell me zat Jean is now dead five years and I can now receive zee insurance money—one hundred sousand pounds, monsieur. Pas mal.”

  “And would you have cashed that check?” Evan asked.

  Yvette shrugged. “Who can say? I sink Jean is dead, n’estce pas? But now I see what zay have planned. Zay get zee life insurance money and zay live ’appily ever after.” She sighed. “Zere is no ’appy ever after, monsieur. One night zee restaurant catch on fire. I do not know ’ow, but Yvette smoked cigarettes. She was sometimes so tired zat she fall asleep with zee cigarette in ’er hand. Maybe zat is ’ow it started. All I know is zat I wake wiz my room full of smoke. Zere was no window in my little room, no way out except zee door to zee kitchen. Zee kitchen is full of flame. I try to run through those flames but I don’t get as far as zee door.”

  “Zee next sing I know, I wake in zee ’ospital bed. I am in zee great pain. My ’air is all burned away. Who would recognize me, zee way I look? Zay are calling me Madame Bouchard. I alone was saved from zee burning building. And zen I realize—zis is my chance. Now I can start a new life. I am Yvette Bouchard.”

  She put her wig back on her head. “For a while zay did not know if I would live or die. But I lived—I went on living as Yvette Bouchard. I thought zat I am safe because Yvette had nobody in zee world who know ’er. She was an orphan, you know. She ’ad no family. I come to a distant place and start again. At last, I am free.”

  “Until Jean Bouchard turned up,” Evan said. “That must have been a nasty shock for you.”

  “A nasty shock you say? I almost die when he tell me who ’e ees. And ’e ees so angry. He say, ’What ’ave you done wiz my wife? You keel my wife!’ He blame me, monsieur. He think I keel his wife.”

  “And so you had to kill him,” Evan said.

  She spun around to face him. “I did not keel him, monsieur. I swear to you by all zee saints, I did not keel him.”

  “Oh come on now,” Evan said. “You were desperate. This man would ruin your life. You had no choice—you had to stop him somehow.”

  “I am very upset and confused when I see ’im. I tell ’im to go to my apartment and we will talk as soon as I get rid of zee patrons. You are zee last patrons to leave. I run up zee stairs and zen I see ’im. He is lying on zee floor—dead. My kitchen knife is sticking from ’is chest. Zere is blood everywhere . . . Mon dieu, eet is terrible! I don’t know what to do.” She spread her hands in a very French gesture. “Who would believe me if I tell zee truth? Zay will sink, like you, zat I keel ’im. So I remember ’ow zee fire in Sussex burn everysing so well that nossing is left. I pour cooking oil everywhere and I put a big pot of oil on zee stove and I set my beautiful restaurant on fire . . . and once again, my dreams go up in flames.”

  She sank down in her chair, looking frail and old. Bronwen came over to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, Janine.”

  “How?” Janine asked in a cracked voice. “I sink it will nevair be all right for me.”

  Evan didn’t know how to answer that one. He thought it was all too possible that a jury wouldn’t believe Janine’s far-fetched tale. In fact, every instance pointed to her guilt—hiding out at a friend’s restaurant so that nobody knew she was there, that restaurant burning to the ground with its owner inside, and now the owner’s husband lying stabbed with Janine’s own kitchen knife. It was all too possible that the thumbprint on the knife was the victim’s own as he tried to grab it away from her, or pull it from his chest. People had been hanged in the past on less evidence when there was still a death penalty.

  “We have to help her, Evan,” Bronwen said. “She’s already had enough rotten luck.”

  Evan looked at Bronwen. Her eyes were pleading.

  “I’ll come with you down to headquarters, Janine,” he said. “We’ll see what we can do.” Then he picked up the phone to call the squad car.

  Chapter 22

  Evan hesitated in the vinyl-tiled hallway and stood staring at the door he had just closed behind him. Usually there was satisfaction in bringing a case to a close, and a criminal to justice. Never had he felt more ambivalent than now. He wanted to believe that Janine Laroque was innocent, but reason told him that she had to be guilty. Unfortunately he was sure that D.I. Hughes would come to the same conclusion—and so would a jury. There was little hope of Janine getting off, unless he could prove that someone else committed the murder.

  He sighed. He had done his job and delivered the suspect to the proper authorities. Now he could go home and catch up on some well-earned sleep. He had to learn not to become so emotionally involved with his cases, he told himself. A good policeman stayed detached.

  A door opened down the hall and Evan realized, a second too late, that he should not have dawdled.

  “Evans, is that you?” Potter’s voice echoed. “Where is he, then?”

  “I—I had . . . I mean something else came up.” Evan was caught off guard.

  “Something else came up? I gave you an order, sonny. It was up to you to obey it.”

  “Look, I’m sorry.” Evan felt the color rise in his cheeks. “But when I say something else, I mean something more important. I found the Frenchwoman who’s the murder suspect everyone’s been looking for. I’ve just brought her in. She’s with Sergeant Watkins, waiting for the D.I. to get back.”

  “And you got yourself a nice pat on the back for that, did you? Well, I’ve got a case to solve as well and I want that kid brought in here. Now do you think you can find him, or do I have to send squad cars out for him?”

  “Oh, I found him all right,” Evan said. “In fact he was the one who told me where Madame Yvette was hiding out. I had a long talk with him, and I think you’re making a mistake, Sarge. I don’t think he set those fires.”

  Potter’s face was a mask of stone. “Oh, and what makes you the expert suddenly?”

  “For one thing he hero-worships a young fireman and he wants to be a fireman too when he grows up. For another he claims he has an alibi for the cottage burning. Another kid saw him climbing down the drainpipe after the fire had already started and they ran up to the fire together. That will be easy enough to check.”

  “Kids? They’ll say anything not to snitch on each other, won’t they?”

  Evan wondered if Sergeant Potter had any children of his own. If so, he was sorry for them.

  “So you still want me to bring him in?” Evan asked.

  “Of course I bloody want you to bring him in. If it’s not too much to ask, that is?”

  “Rig
ht. I’ll go and get him now,” Evan said. “Please tell Sergeant Watkins where I am, in case he needs me for anything.”

  He turned and strode to the front door, his feet making a satisfying clatter on the bare floor before he slammed the door behind him.

  This is what happens when you’re a village constable, he told himself as he drove, somewhat too fast, back through Llanberis and up the pass. You get walked all over. People order you around. He allowed his mind to drift into a fantasy in which he went back to detective training and did so well that he jumped through the ranks to inspector in a few months. Then he pictured himself walking in and telling Peter Potter exactly what he thought of him. It was a childish daydream and he was already smiling at himself by the time he reached Llanfair.

  Nobody came to the door when Evan knocked at Terry’s cottage. He drove up and down the village street, then parked his car and checked out all the likely places—the sports field, the school playground, the sweets counter at the village shop. Nobody he asked had seen Terry Jenkins. So the boy was in hiding. Evan couldn’t say he blamed him. He’d probably have done the same thing at Terry’s age. Oh well, give him time. He’d show up when he was hungry.

  Around five-thirty he checked the Jenkinses’ cottage again. Terry’s mother had just got home and had frozen lasagna on the table, ready for a microwaved supper.

  “I don’t know where he is, Constable Evans,” she said apologetically. “You know Terry. He’s never home if it’s daylight and not raining. He could be anywhere on that bike of his. I worry that some day he’s going to get run over, but he seems able to take care of himself. There’s not much I can do, is there?”

  “You could try setting some rules,” Evan said and wished instantly that he hadn’t.

  A defensive look spread across her face. “What, and have him hate me as much as he does his father? I’m trying to make up for his dad, Mr. Evans, and that’s not easy.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” Evan agreed. “Let me know when he gets home, will you?”